


Loyalties

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Branding, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: It doesn't pay to be disloyal to Hell
Comments: 46
Kudos: 281





	Loyalties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Based on Whiteley Foster's [post-Bastille art](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612688014998650880/who-you-belong-to-proskenion-good-omens-tv). Because I'm weak. Be warned - burny stuff ahead.

The soft, steady drip was the first thing to creep across Crowley’s senses.

Glutinous and steady and coldly familiar as a fingertip running down his spine.

He lifted his head, wincing as pain shot through from the base of his skull. Someone had smacked him. Bloody hard as well. Not a human. Too strong a blow.

And whoever they were, looked like they were of the same school of thought as the revolutionary guard. Bit of rope, bit of casual destruction of clothing. Chair, at least. And no chains. That was something.

The brazier in the corner, though…

Crowley pulled slowly, carefully against the ropes. Tightly-knotted. Secure.

“Hello, Crowley.”

A shadow peeled off from the dank gloom.

“Hastur!” Crowley plastered on his second best – and most convincing – grin. Not panicking. Definitely not panicking. “Didn’t picture you as the bondage type.”

The demon bared his mossy teeth. “Always making jokes.” He squelched closer, the floor tarry and black underfoot. “Well, not so funny now, are they?”

“Not a joke,” Crowley tried to twist his hand, tried to unravel the cord with a gesture. Shit shit shit shit. Definitely not coming loose. “Observation. You here. Me tied up. Never thought I’d see the day, that’s all.” He couldn’t stop his eyes – uncovered, oh Christ when did they take his glasses? – flicking towards the brazier and back. “What’s this all about, then?”

Hastur’s face twisted into a smile and ohhhh, that was definitely not something ever wanted to see, not now, not ever. “Thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you? Your little…” He grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon, “good deed.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Good deed?” Eyes wide. S’always a good way to look innocent that. And then lie like hell and hope for the best. “Don’t know what you’re on about there.”

Hastur hissed, shaking his head. “Rescuing people from the Bastille?”

People? Oh, thank… Someone for that.

“Inflamming the wrath of the locals!” he brazened out hopefully. “Got them all really pissed off when their prime prisoner escaped. Took it out on a few of their mates. Got to love it when you can spread it…” He trailed off when Hastur turned his back on him, squelching towards the brazier. “It was one person. S’not exactly a big deal, is it?”

“Our Dark Lords,” Hastur said, sounding altogether too gleeful for Crowley’s tastes, “feel that the… look of the thing is very important.” He was digging around at the brazier, the damned thing sparking and hissing, fresh infernal light stretching shadows across the floor. “Rescuing people – even one person – is… very _good_ form.”

“Oh come _on_ ,” Crowley protested. “Even if it had a knock-on effect?”

Hastur turned and Crowley recoiled back in the chair. The demon’s face was lit by the glowing tip of a branding iron. He recognised the sigil, the twist, the curve, the blazing white heat of the thing turning Hastur’s mottled face gold and red.

“You’re a _demon_ , Crowley,” Hastur said, lips peeling back from his teeth. “the Dark Lords believe you need a… little reminder where your loyalties lie.”

“I- isn’t that a bit much? I mean, I’ve got one on my face already. S’not like I can really avoid seeing it, eh?” He strained against the ropes, heart in his throat, hands shaking. Voice still steady though. They wanted the look of the thing, he’d bloody well give them it. “Come on. What’s that really going to prove? You _know_ I’m loyal to the Dark Council.”

Hastur clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I’m just obeying orders,” he said, walking closer, the heat of the bloody great thing tangible from five feet away. The demon grinned at him, slow and malicious. “Best orders I’ve had in a long time.”

“S’pose I can’t talk–”

White-hot metal flashed forward.

He didn’t scream.

Was bloody proud of himself for that. Almost bit his tongue off, but didn’t scream. Stared down, watching the skin bubble around the brand. Stopped hurting, to his surprise. World was going a bit black around the edges. Bloody-black on his skin. Nails into palms.

Didn’t scream when Hastur pulled the branding iron back either.

Ha. Ha. Not so… not so fun. Not screaming. Not… not for you.

He swallowed hard around the burn in his throat, looked up. “Satisfied?” The word tasted like blood.

The other demon scowled at him. Disappointed. Good. Bastard. He hissed, throwing the iron back in the brazier, snapped his fingers. The ropes dropped from Crowley’s arms.

Crowley got up. Sort of. More stagger than swagger. World still a bit too swirly on the edges. Throbbing burning pain pulsing through him. “Right,” he managed, trying very hard not to flinch as he put his clothes in order. Christ it _hurt_. “Lovely seeing you again, Hastur. As always.”

Bastard _really_ looked disappointed. Best of healing balms, that.

“Don’t forget, Crowley,” Hastur snarled, “which side you’re on.”

Crowley grinned – third-best, purest malicious one – and pointed to his face then his chest. “I’ve got the memos.” He turned on his heel and – definitely not crying or staggering or whimpering – swaggered as best he could all the way to the gates of Hell.

The mortal world was cool and damp. As soon as his feet touched the cobbles, he folded to his knees, throwing up fragments of crepes. “Fuck,” he gasped out, shaking hand trembling over the burn. Trying to draw the heat out. Trying to ease it. Cool it. Anything it.

It burned _hot_. Infernally hot.

One day, he thought, stumbling back to his feet, bracing his other hand on the wet-brick wall, Hastur would burn too. Now, though…

Animals retreated when wounded. Found their burrow. Licked their wounds. Healed. And he would and could, knowing the angel was… safe. Safe for now. Unnoticed, unseen by Heaven and Hell. Small mercies.

For now, he would retreat, tend his wounds, rest, recover and… and then do whatever it took to make sure it never happened again.


End file.
